


You ain't no poet (and don't I know it)

by flightyrock



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barista/Florist AU, Christmas, Corporate Espionage, Customer service HELL, Darcy Is a Good Bro, F/M, Flower meanings, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mugging, Mutual Pining, Offscreen character death, Past Domestic Violence, Poetry, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SO MUCH FLUFF, Scars, Swearing, Thanksgiving, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro, buckys mom died a long time ago, but he loved her and is sad about it, degrading comments about steve urkel pants, elementary level poetry, handwavy legal jargon and policies, i dont even know at this point, i love my shy boys, ive never worked at a coffee shop, lots of hugs though, maybe in another one shot though?, mentioned hair plucking torture?, no sex guys, oh yeah, shrugs, so a lot of this is probably wrong, sorry - Freeform, steve wears hipster glasses, steve will fight you, theyre both so shy i couldnt make sex happen in a reasonable length of time, unfair firing of a longterm employee, unless you're handsome or he's just too tired, word of the fic is 'blush'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 02:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightyrock/pseuds/flightyrock
Summary: Steve's just your average insecure and overly-aggressive graduate student-turned barista, putting in ridiculous hours to survive the insane cost of living in NYC.  But there's this gorgeous guy who's started coming in on the daily to indulge a mocha habit, and Steve knows just how to win him over (not really).aka:The cliched poetry and Barista!Florist AU that I didn't realize I needed until like midnight last night.  Now with unexpected bonus plot.  Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the wonderful folks at the Stucky!AU Bang for encouraging me to crank out a short fic faster than I've ever written before (Not that this is short, exactly; in fact, this is the longest fic I've ever published. Go figure). They're still accepting sign ups, so if you want to join us in the most supportive Slack I've ever seen, you can find them here. (If I can get the link to work).
> 
> TW for referenced and implied domestic violence and the scars from the incident. Nothing too graphic, but if this is a sensitive subject for you, please stay safe. There's also a great deal of swearing. If there's enough demand, I can make a clean version. Just PM me on tumblr; my username is the same.
> 
> Also, this is unbetad (because I'm lazy) so feel free to point out any mistakes you find. In my defense, this was supposed to be short and fast. It was fast. Short, not so much.
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

Steve was in trouble.

Not that Steve was ever _not_ in trouble.  Just yesterday he sassed the guy mugging him and had ended up with one heck of a shiner.  (But come on; this moron thought he could wear Urkel pants and mug someone and not expect the mug-ee to call him out on it?  Please.  A hunting knife wasn’t even close to deterrent enough for Steve’s big mouth.  He was just lucky the guy was so mad he forgot to use it.  Forgot to give the wallet back after he divested Steve of the eight dollars to his name, so he had needed to cancel all his cards.  Again.) 

He was glad the assistant manager had allowed him to work the front today, only having one operable eye and looking like a brawler in front of the snootier-than-thou customers.

Although he had a sneaking suspicion that his height helped him out there; no one in their right mind would suspect that someone of his physique was a troublemaker; he stood at 5’4” (if you asked the right doctor) and weighed 115 pounds soaking wet.  But it’s not like he was hauling hay bales or anything, so it didn’t matter.  Much.

He scowled at the old biddies with their designer purses and overly large phones who slipped an extra twenty into the tip jar after tutting sympathetically at him.  Steven Grant Rogers didn’t take handouts, but he also couldn’t move from behind the counter to shove their pity money back in their over-made faces, because the coffee shop was _packed_ for a Tuesday.

Plus, that would be rude.  And he was kind of on thin ice lately as it was, because the new manager did _not_ like him.

“Rogers!” Ross, his asshole of a manager (when the heck did he show up?!), barked.  Speak of the devil.  “Switch to barista; people are staring, and it’s holding up the line!”

Steve indulged himself in a furtive eye-roll.  Ross was full of shit, nothing new there. 

God, this job sucked.  But art school wasn’t going to pay for itself, and the starting wage at this overpriced swillstand was _amazing_.  It was practically livable.  You know, if he really took advantage of the free food around campus that was probably intended to keep the undergraduates happy; not feed overworked and underpaid grad students.

But was it worth it?  Sometimes Steve really didn’t think so, hissing as he burned himself on the damn hot water, trying not to let a few fly like he desperately wanted to.  He really hoped this one wouldn’t blister, (cleaning pastel dust out of burn blisters _sucked_ ) but knowing his luck, it probably would. 

He growled in aggravation as he spilled syrup down the front of his apron (he just did laundry _yesterday_ ) in his haste to assemble one of those ridiculous “secret menu” items that had more sugar than anyone should consume in a day.  And took way too much time to assemble during the morning rush. 

He made sure to scribble a bastardized version of “Jessica” (Venti for Jostica?  Jostica? No one?) over the logo to ruin any social media photos.  Because he may be in the service industry, but he was still an asshole.  Plus she was super rude to Peter, who was twitchy even when they _weren’t_ swamped; but Ross hated him too.  Steve secretly thought that Ross just wanted to see how far he could push them until the cracked, sadistic bastard.

But, anyways.  Steve was in trouble. 

Because that gorgeous guy that started coming in two weeks ago just _smiled at him_ from his place in line, oh my God. 

 

Steve had been secretly pining after him from that very first visit.  He had his long, brown hair up in a messy bun, pieces jutting out wildly.  A couple of bang strands had escaped the confines of the tie and were stuck to his sweaty forehead, which was wrinkled in anxiety above gorgeous, grey-blue eyes.  Steve had stammered when he took his order (venti white chocolate mocha with double shot and extra whip), drooling a bit as he took twenty and stared at the way the navy long-sleeved shirt clung to his sculpted arms and pecks.  It took all his strength to call “Barnes” and the order loud enough for the barista to hear.

And then he had totally forgotten that he was handed a twenty, and tried to give him a handful of change.  He was too busy dreaming about the ridiculously hot guy.  Oh.  Who was still standing in front of him, looking pissed off.

“Look, pal, are you gonna daydream or give me my change?”  He scowled.  Oh man, he was still gorgeous when he was mad, Steve registered distantly over his sudden irritation, quick to surface after years of assholes trying to cheat him out of a balanced register.

“I already gave you your change,” Steve bristled, ready for a fight.

“Yeah, _some_ of it.”  The guy snorted.  “But I gave you a twenty.”

Only years of practice in the service industry allowed Steve to restrain his eye-roll.  Assholes tried this trick every once in a while.  He knew he looked distracted, but he would definitely remember if he was handed a _twenty_.  This guy handed him a five, did he think Steve was born yesterday? 

Steve tried (and failed) to school his expression into his best I’m-being-ever-so-polite-but-also-refusing-to-take-your-shit face.  He’s pretty sure only the second part got across.

“Sir, you handed me a five, which is why I handed you seventeen cents.”

Barnes was not impressed.

“Pal, I bet if you open up your drawer and look at the front of the twenty on the top, it’s gonna have a black scribble on the upper right-hand corner.  I mark all the bills that come into my shop.” He crossed his arms, glaring at Steve until he did as the guy suggested.

Sure enough, there was the mark.  Steve wilted, feeling his face turn red.  He was officially an idiot.

He handed the guy his fifteen dollars, meaning to stammer out an apology.  But what really came out was: “Nice trick.  Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Like, what?  That didn’t even make any sense!  Thanks for nothing, brain!

But Barnes just shot him a strained smile, and to Steve’s complete shock, slipped the five into the tip jar before all but running out the door with his sugary drink in tow.

Steve was sure he didn’t make the best first impression.  But he must not have completely turned him off, because he continued to come.  And Steve continued to take his order every day, because he just loved to torture himself apparently, but Barnes never really _smiled_.  Sometimes the corners of his mouth hinted at it, but that’s as close as it came.

So that’s why he thought his skepticism was justified; there was just no way that hot-guy (well, Barnes, but it was such an old man name that Steve still just called him some variation of “hot guy” in his head) was smiling at _him._

And hell, if Steve though he was gorgeous before, he was an absolute knock-out when he showed some teeth.

At first, Steve reflexively turned to look over his shoulder (seriously, there had to be someone else back there), but only the pots were there, and when he turned back around, the guy was practically _grinning_.  And making eye contact.

Steve reached up to fix his hair, but then he remembered he was supposed to be making a cold brew.

Why would he be smiling at Steve, though?  Steve was a mess.

Oh no, he was probably laughing at what a mess Steve was.  On second thought, there was no way he wasn’t; he looked ridiculous.  Bony wrists and too-big glasses constantly sliding down his nose, framing an eye that was swollen shut and blacker than that day’s dark roast, hair a flyaway mess from running his hands through it in aggravation and too-big apron sticky and stained.

But, at first, before Steve made a fool at himself, it hadn’t exactly looked like a happy smile.  He looked almost…sad?  Pained?  That didn’t make any sense.  Unless he was feeling sorry for Steve for being the walking definition of a hot mess.

He banged the pots roughly, and burned his damn hand again.  Stupid Barnes and his stupid old man name and his stupidly straight teeth, what the _hell_ , Steve was in so much trouble.

Regardless, he found himself shuffling Peter to the side and holding up the line so he could take his order as usual.  (Barnes liked to tease him when he fumbled the change.  Steve _might_ have called him a jerk once or twice, but he didn’t seem to mind.)  He straightened his apron, and smiled with his usual greeting.

“H-hey,” he stuttered.  Smooth, Rogers.

“Morning,” Barnes frowned a bit at him, brow scrunching adorably in concern.  “Are you okay?  You’re not in any trouble are you?”

_Yes._

“No,” Steve smiled convincingly, but shrunk back a bit, stripped naked under Barnes’ piercing glare.  “Well, not any more than usual,” Steve conceded.

Barnes’ glare grew sharper, and something dark seeped into his gaze.  Steve was frozen by that glare.  Like a mouse staring into the eyes of a snake, he couldn’t look away.

“Look, maybe it’s none of my business, but I saw that guy pick you up a couple of days ago.  You shoved him away, but he just kept…anyway, I’m telling you right now, it isn’t worth it.  Because I’ve been there,” his eyes were earnest and pained.  “They’ll apologize, but they won’t mean it.  _He_ didn’t mean it.”

Barnes’s eyes were hollow as he placed his book on the counter ( _Essential Poetry, Vol. I)_ to pull up his left sleeve, revealing a blanket of scars, criss-crossing over his forearm.  Steve felt sick; he could only imagine how it had felt to get something like that. 

But why was he…OH.  He must of thought…because Tony was here the other day, manhandling Steve like he always did, the jerk.  And Steve always pushed him away, but he’d always grab Steve’s hand and swing it around like the asshole he was. 

But they were just friends, they weren’t together or anything, Barnes must have thought-- Oh no, he hadn’t been staring at his arm this whole time, had he? 

Shit, he had.  He needed to say something.  Fast.

“Oh,” Steve said lamely.  Nice choice.  Very smooth.

“I’m…I’m so sorry, that’s…yeah, but… I’m not in that kind of trouble.  I mean, I was just, um, mugged, yesterday.  I don’t have a boyfriend or anything,” he muttered.

“Oh,” Barnes flushed, fumbling for cash to pay for a drink he hadn’t ordered yet.

“I’ll just…” Steve trailed off, and made his escape, letting Peter take care of the change.

And immediately regretted it, because; was he an absolute moron?  _Yes_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully.

Way to go Steve, great job, a fucking plus.  The guy opened up to _you_ , a complete stranger, about an abusive relationship, out of concern for your well-being, and you made it awkward.  Then you _ran away_ like a grade-A jerk.

Oh _no_ , what if he’s so embarrassed he never comes back?  And all he remembers is what a complete jerk Steve was? 

Or worse, what if this ruins his whole day, all because Steve couldn’t keep his big mouth shut and let some two-bit criminal take his wallet like a normal person?  Or because of his and Tony’s strangely antagonistic friendship?

Steve had to fix this, and he only had a couple minutes at most to think of something.

What did Barnes like?  Coffee.  But he just bought that, and paid for it already, so he couldn’t exactly give him that.  What else?  Think, Rogers, think.

His book.  What had his book been about again?  Oh yeah, poetry.  Maybe he liked poems?

Steve wasn’t the worst at writing poetry, but even _he_ couldn’t crank out something of quality in less than a minute.

By that time, the drink was done, and all Steve had left to do was personalize the cup.  Steve was out of time, so he found himself scribbling an unbelievably cheesy poem on a blank side, complete with the happiest of the fast doodles:

 

**“Roses are red**

**Violets are blue;**

**My eye may be black,**

**But please don’t be blue.”**

**Have a great day!**

**-Steve** **:)  
**

He called “Barnes” before he could talk himself out of throwing the expensive drink in the garbage, and tried to smile at him, but Barnes wouldn’t meet his eye, and Steve deflated as he all but ran out the door without even looking at the cup.

What the hell was he _thinking_?  ‘My eye may be black, but please don’t be blue!?’  He sounded like an idiot.  Blue didn’t really rhyme with blue!  That was cheater rhyming!  Not to mention he should have thanked him for his concern, or something. 

Anything other than that groan-worthy line.  He was lucky the guy didn’t look at it.  There was no way he was ever coming back now.

Steve wanted to cry; he’d never see him again, and it was all his fault.  The one reason he almost looked forward to coming to work, gone.

But then Ross was yelling at him, and the customers were losing what little patience they had in the first place, so he blinked back his tears and got back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve’s heart sank when Barnes didn’t come in the next day.  Or the day after that.  Then he had off Friday through Sunday, but he couldn’t bring himself to work on any of his projects or homework.  There was no logical reason for it, but he felt sick.  He couldn’t stop thinking about that exchange on Tuesday. 

He _knew_ it was his fault that Barnes stopped indulging his latte, well, mocha, habit.  And it wasn’t like Steve had a chance before, but he _definitely_ didn’t have a chance now.  And he felt like a complete jerk for thinking about himself and the sad state of his dating history when he upset a survivor of domestic abuse who was just trying to help him.

Him, the asshole who couldn’t even stay out of trouble for five freaking minutes.

Right on cue, the smoke detector started screaming.  Shit, he knew better than to use the “popcorn” setting on the microwave!  He’d been distracted lately, he thought, as he threw the bag in the sink by a corner and threw a pot over it to smother the flames licking the sides.  Popcorn was greasy; he learned that lesson the hard way.  Then he unplugged the microwave for good measure.  He’d check it over later.

But for now, he’d just let the burnt popcorn smell keep him company.  It was easier to be sad when your apartment smelled like snack failure.

<<>> 

He wasn’t seriously expecting anything different, but his heart still sank when Barnes didn’t show up during his shift on Monday.  And he _always_ came early on Mondays, hair a bit more rumpled than usual, dark circles highlighting those smoky eyes.

Steve sighed.  He’d better get used to it.  He wasn’t going to see him again.

But then a familiar figure showed up in line on Tuesday, a full week after that disastrous interaction.  Steve’s eye was slowly healing, bruises fading a bit, and turning a sickly yellow-green along the edges.  He could see out of it again at least, which was why he was more inclined to trust what he was seeing. 

Who he was seeing.

He couldn’t help it; he broke out into a full grin when Barnes caught his eye.  Barnes’ eyes widened, and he gave Steve a small smile in return.  He was wearing a baggy maroon sweater today; he looked so soft, Steve felt his heart melt.

Steve was so happy he was back, he totally forgot to commandeer the cashier stand and instead started personalizing the cup:

 

**“Roses are red,**

**Violets are blue.**

**I hope you’re not mad;**

**I’m so happy to see you!”**

**I missed you, jerk.**

**-Steve**

He took his time and drew a field of black and white violets underneath the message, making them larger towards the bottom of the cup and smaller closer to the poem, giving the illusion that the field extended far into the distance.  He also ignored a lot of irate customers and started making the overly sweet drink so it was ready by the time Barnes had paid. 

His eyes widened as Steve handed him the cup as he swiped his card (no cash today, that was different), but he all but ran out the door again.  He didn’t even look at the cup.

Steve wanted to cry.  He had let himself get carried away, he was just so _happy_ he came back, and now he probably scared him away.  Stupid.

And now he was behind in orders, and the tips would be terrible.

 

But apparently Steve hadn’t scared him away, because he was back the next day.  And the day after that.

But even more shocking was the fact that now Barnes smiled at him _every day_.  Maybe Steve wasn’t as much of a fuck-up as he thought.

So he kept writing cheesy little poems on the sides of Barnes’ cup, and sometimes Barnes would tell him his hair looked nice, or that he liked how Steve rolled his sleeves like a professional.

He’d thank him shyly, than scribble what he’d like to say out loud if he wasn’t so stressed and crunched for time on the coffee cup after the traditional first two lines, to make sure he didn’t fumble the delivery.  Things like:

 

“ **Blue is your color, but so is maroon.** ”

 

and:

 

“ **You look comfy today; have a great afternoon!** ”

 

He also liked to doodle on the cups when he had a bit of extra time, or when Barnes looked especially run down.  He’d draw little suns, or cats lounging on top the logo, or geometric patterns.  One time he’d caught Barnes sneaking a peek at the cup, and the tips of his ears had flushed adorably as a shy smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.  Steve lived to brighten his day like that.

And some of the other employees took notice.

“Oooh, Rogers is in looooove,” Darcy, one of the undergraduate students, with long dark hair would croon as she nudged him after Barnes was safely out the door.

“Shut up,” Steve muttered, flushed, but unable to deny it.

Then she’d flip her hair, and waggle her pierced eyebrows at him.

 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Peter would venture every once in a while.

“I don’t know,” Steve would mumble, but that was a lie, because he did know; Barnes was way out of his league.  Steve didn’t have a chance, and he was too selfish to give up the best part of his day just in case Barnes would take offense and leave for good.  Nope, better to keep things as they were.

 

And that comfortable pattern of exchanged complements continued for a few weeks, and probably would have continued for the foreseeable future if Steve hadn’t messed it up. 

He had worked a couple of full days in a row and closed the shop at Ross’ request, because everyone knew a request from his boss was really more of an order.  Steve would be easy to replace, after all, as Ross loved to remind him. 

Sometimes he fantasized about ripping that caterpillar mustache off as it squirmed while Ross yammered at him about how slow and useless he was.  He imagined how it would feel to pluck it out slowly, strand by strand.  His six years of service meant nothing in this business.  Steve was just glad Ross had decided to be an asshole when classes were on a break, for once.

The holidays were coming up fast, and Steve hated the seasonal drinks, and the annual shitshow over the cup design.  Why the hell did people care?  The stupid things were made of paper, and everyone just threw them away anyways.

But all the controversy and the pumpkin spice meant business was booming, and the place could easily rake in an extra three to four thousand dollars a day, which Steve painstakingly counted three times before he filled out the deposit slip and signed it.  Then he dropped the money bag off in Ross’ office and locked up.

 

It was a Thursday when the pattern changed.  Just one day to go before the weekend.  It had been a better-than-usual day because Barnes’ had told him he had a really nice smile, and that he should smile more.  Of course, Steve had scowled at him and told him to shove it, but on his cup he wrote:

 

“ **Roses are red,**

**Violets are blue;**

**Your smile is amazing,**

**I’ll try if you do.”**

**-Steve**

And he made the impulsive decision to scribble a heart, which he second-guessed the moment the cup left his hand.

He flushed when Barnes stuck around to read it, but couldn’t help smiling in response when Barnes shot him a shy smile before he hurried out the door.

Steve threw his arms into the air in victory.  It was moments like these when he thought he might actually have a chance. 

Darcy had caught that, and waggled her eyebrows suggestively at him as he rolled his eyes.  Even Darcy couldn’t ruin this for him.  It was an amazing day.

 

Until it wasn’t.

 

Ross had all but run out of the building twenty minutes before closing, barking at Steve to lock up over his shoulder.

Steve rolled his eyes.  What did Ross think he’d been doing these past few days?  He was alone here at night; he couldn’t ask the undergraduate employees to stick around this late; they still had regular homework and lectures.

Tonight wasn’t any different, at first.  He counted the cash and totaled the credit slips, compiling the information on a deposit slip just like usual.  They had made almost fifteen thousand today, almost six thousand over their usual take. 

He stepped into Ross’ office, and was about to set the bag on the table, when something caught his eye.

The desk was messier than usual, papers scattered around.  Steve bent to pick up a stray deposit slip from the floor, and almost dropped it again in his shock.

It was from yesterday, and it showed a couple of thousand dollars less than he had counted!  In his handwriting!  Steve was sure, because he counted everything five times last night cursing his exhaustion all the while when the numbers didn’t match after the first two counts.  He had walked out the door a full fifteen minutes later than he should have, and missed his usual train to boot.

Something didn’t feel right.

On an impulse he couldn’t explain, he took out his phone, and started to record.

“My name is Steve Rogers, and I just finished counting up the money and closing for the day.  I’ve been closing all week.  I found something strange, and…I’m here alone, so I thought maybe I should record it?  Look at this deposit slip.  It was on the floor, laying like this, so I picked it up.”

He recreated the scene for the camera, then picked it up again and continued.

“It’s from yesterday, and I wrote it.  It’s in my handwriting.  Well, mostly.  Check out the amount.  Now, that’s a lot, but I counted like five times yesterday.  I messed up the first couple counts, so I had to redo it.  So I think I’d remember if it was a few thousand short.  It’s been pretty consistent all week.  Here’s the slip from tonight.”

He pulled out the deposit slip.

“Look at the amounts.  They’re not even close to the same range.  And business has been consistent all week, you can check the cameras.  Something’s not right--”

He cut off abruptly at the sound of the front door unlocking, and hastily stuffed the phone into his pocket.

That’s all he had time for before Ross came in the office door and all but threw him out of the building.  His voice was low and dangerous as he hissed:

“You should have been done twenty minutes ago.  Get out!”

So Steve ran for it, fumbling his bag and completely forgetting his coat in his haste. 

He bemoaned his skittishness when he was a couple of blocks away, shivering in the bitter autumn cold, but he didn’t dare go back for it.

He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, and realized it was still recording. 

“Fuck,” he whispered as he stopped the recording.

He was in for a cold commute home. 

When he finally stumbled in the front door, he couldn’t feel his hands and he was too exhausted to do more than toe off his shoes and reset his alarm before flopping into bed.

 

He regretted not taking the time to take a lukewarm shower, at least, when he work up stiff and sore the next morning.

“Ugh,” he groaned, as he threw on a fresh-ish set of clothes and his spare coat.  He really didn’t want to go to work today, but what else was new?

He dozed through his morning commute, and everything was normal until he went to clock in.

And his card wouldn’t take.

He frowned, and tried it again.

Strange.  It wasn’t even the usual error message that popped up when the swipe didn’t take.  Instead, it was saying something like “Error: invalid ID.”  Maybe his card had gotten demagnetized, or something.

He shrugged to himself, and started the opening procedure, wiping down counters and starting a couple of pots of French roast. 

He jumped when the front door slammed and Ross stormed in.

“Get out, Rogers.”

“Sir?” Steve asked.  That couldn’t be right.

“You heard me,” Ross growled.  “You’re fired.  Get out.”

“But—“

“OUT!” Ross roared, and Steve ran for it.


	3. Chapter 3

What the hell just happened?!  And he forgot his other coat _again_ ; it had barely started, but it was already shaping up to be an awful day.

Steve wandered around in shock for a little while, stopping at another café to get his bearings.

He had just been fired.  From a job he worked for the past six years of his life, and he had been fired, so he couldn’t even get a reference out of it.  All that time, wasted.  All that money eaten up by rent and living expenses.  What was he going to do!?

He ran his hands through his hair in aggravation.

But _why_ was he fired? Maybe he hadn’t been the best customer service representative, but sue him.  Nobody was.  Why him in particular?

Was it about Ross “catching” him in his office last night?  Steve frowned.  It was a distinct possibility.  Really, it was the only thing that made sense; Ross didn’t even wait until the morning rush was over before he kicked him out.  He was just so surprised that he ran out without thinking.

What was he doing, letting Ross scare him?  The worst had already happened.  He couldn’t be fired _again_.  He was going to march straight back there and demand an explanation.  And get his coat back.

So that’s what he did.  He got the coat, no problem, but an explanation…

Well…

“You’re done, Rogers.  Leave before I call the police.”

So, with no work to fill his time, Steve went to the library to write an email to corporate.  He wasn’t sure whether or not he should mention the shady office activity, so he kept it vague, stating that he was terminated earlier that morning after six years of consistent service and wasn’t given an explanation, and was threatened with law enforcement when he persisted.

With that done, Steve sighed, and decided to call it quits for the day.  He was going to curl up in a blanket burrito on his disgusting, fifth- or sixth-hand couch and binge-watch “The Office” using Tony’s Netflix account. 

God bless Tony’s Netflix account.

Of course, that meant that Tony knew that Steve was home all day crying over Jim and Pam (because the weirdo liked to check the watch history; sometimes Steve didn’t think free Netflix was worth it), and he showed up threatening to kick in the door to drag Steve out.

Steve still didn’t entirely understand how Tony had come to haunt that Art History class he had TA’d one semester, but he was reluctantly grateful.  For all that their personalities clashed, Tony was an excellent friend, and just patted Steve on the back as he sobbed over his third beer of the night.

“But Steve, you _hated_ that job,” Tony took a pull on his cocktail, after Steve had calmed down a bit.  “Honestly, Ross did you a favor, firing you before you could get fed up and quit.  Now you have some pay coming to you while you look for another soul-sucking, dead end job.  It shouldn’t take long!  Labor shortage, and all that.”

“But…it won’t be the same,” Steve ran his finger through the condensation on the side of his glass.  He was a bit hazier than he usually preferred to be, but for once he didn’t mind.  He was too sad.

Tony snorted.  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure it will.  All those jobs are pretty much alike.”

It was Steve’s turn to snort. 

“How would you know, Mr. Trust Fund?  You haven’t worked customer service a day in your life!”

Tony drew himself up, puffing out his chest in righteous indignation. 

“I beg to differ!  For your information, in my late teens, I was a right little snot, so the old man sent me to Stark Industries branch in _Michigan_ to work the customer service desk.  _For an entire summer_.  I was in hell, Steve, _hell._ ”

He gestured wildly, almost hitting the guy sitting to his right, and the guy shot him an annoyed glare that went unnoticed; Tony was too caught up in his story.

Steve couldn’t help but laugh.  “I would have paid money to see that!”

His good humor didn’t last long, because he absolutely could _not_ pay good money without a job, and without that job there was no seeing Barnes.  He sighed.

Tony poked him.  “C’mon, Rogers, what’s the real reason you’re upset?  You have some secret boyfriend I should—“  Steve flushed.  Betrayed by his own body.

“Oh my God, you do!” Tony clapped gleefully.  “C’mon, Steve-o, I need the deets.  Gimme!”

He made grabby hands, and Steve swatted him away playfully.

“There’s nothing to tell.” Steve shrunk away as Tony continued to poke at him, demanding details.

“Really, Tony!  He was just some guy that would come in all the time, but then I messed up, and I’d write stuff on his cups,” he trailed off muttering, fidgeting in shame and embarrassment.

“Please tell me you got his number.”  Steve’s face must have answered that.  “No?  C’mon Steve, how long?  How long have you been pining?” Tony nudged him.  Steve was too tired to argue over his choice of words.

“Not sure; almost two months, probably.” Steve drank some more of his beer.  Ugh.  It was starting to get warm.

“Steve!”  Tony swatted him again.  “You dope, you should have asked for his number after the first week!”

“No way, he probably doesn’t even remember me.” Steve slumped forward onto the bar, feeling the tears coming on again. 

“And now I’ll never see him again, but that’s okay because he didn’t like me back.”

Tony sighed.  “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that.  C’mon, lets get you home.  If you’re gonna cry, may as well be from the comfort of your own home.”

 

Steve woke the next morning to a splitting headache and a crude dick drawn on a post-it note stuck to his forehead.  Crude, but not cruel.  Classic Tony. 

 

<<>> 

 

It had been a rough week.  He had tried to look for another job, he really did, but his heart wasn’t in it.  Turns out there was a labor shortage everywhere other than college campuses where everyone needed a job requiring minimal skill and flexible hours. Go figure.

It was Friday again.  The one good thing about this week was that Steve was able to channel his frustration and sadness into some of his studio projects, which earned him some excellent feedback.  But then his professor had pulled him aside and asked if he was okay, so there went the bright side.

Steve groaned.  He didn’t feel like doing anything today; he was sick of surfing YouTube, and he couldn’t exactly watch Netflix without running the risk of Tony finding out and calling him out for moping.

He was decidedly not moping on the couch in ratty sweats and a stained campus t-shirt when the doorbell rang, and Steve legitimately panicked.  Only his landlord ever rang the doorbell; did he forget to pay rent!?  No, no, he might be going slightly insane, but he definitely remembered slipping the check into her box two weeks ago.  Before everything went to shit.

The doorbell rang again, and Steve hopped of the couch to look through the peephole.  He didn’t recognize the guy standing there, but he was holding something, so Steve took the chance and opened the door.

The guy was blond, and shoved a flower arrangement and a clipboard roughly into Steve’s arms, much to his confusion and irritation.

“Sign, please,” the guy drawled, and shot him a wink as he fumbled to set the flowers on the floor to do as he asked.  He scribbled his signature in the box, and handed the clipboard and pen back.

“Thanks,” the guy grinned and shot him a cocky salute before Steve slammed the door in his face.  He heard him laughing as he walked away.

What a dick.

Steve’s foul mood petered off into confusion as he picked up the flower arrangement to set it on the table and examine it.

It was a simple but beautiful combination of sunflowers, big pointy orange blooms, and tiny round white ones with five delicate petals and fuzzy yellow centers, interspersed amid greenery.

Whoever arranged it had an excellent eye for color and texture; Steve also admired the playful usage of size and shape.  This couldn’t have been cheap; who would send Steve something like this?

His first thought was Tony, but flowers really weren’t the guy’s style, no matter how much of a shitty week Steve had been having.  Tony would have sent him a dildo, or one of those plastic piles of shit.  He may have asked Pepper, his long-time girlfriend, for advice, but it wasn’t likely.

Wait!  There was a card!

He opened it up, and read:

 

**“Roses can be red, and**

**Violets may be blue,**

**But not this time, punk,**

**I fucking miss you.”**

**Stop by the shop anytime!**

**-Bucky**

What the--?  Who the hell was Bucky?

Wait…

He turned the envelope over.  Under the logo, a star with petals falling around it, was written “Winnie’s Garden,” which didn’t ring any bells.  It was probably the name of the shop.

That cheesy poem though.  There was only one person who Steve associated with “roses are red” poems.

Bucky must be Barnes!

Unless the stress of the past week had made him delusional.  Which was a distinct possibility, but Steve was pretty sure his imagination couldn’t cook up a name like “Bucky.”

Steve snorted to himself.  Barnes may be an old man name, but “Bucky” sounded like the name a five-year-old would give a hamster.

But at the same time, it was pretty cute.

There was also a phone number scribbled below the note, but Steve wasn’t about to take any chances.  Not with the way his luck was going this week.

He hopped in the shower, then hemmed and hawed over his clothing choices.  He settled for a nice blue button up that made his eyes pop (or so he’s been told) untucked over silvery-grey jeans, and his favorite tan Timberlands with bright red accents.  He even gelled his hair, gave it all one last look before he straightened his glasses, shrugged on his jacket and marched out the door.

Then realized he had no idea where he was going.  Thank God for the internet.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve plugged “Winnie’s Garden” into his phone, and was led to an unassuming storefront with a peeling hand-painted sign a couple of blocks from the coffee shop.  No wonder he never noticed it before.  There were specials printed on plain white computer paper taped to the windows.  Huh.  This place must not get a lot of walk-ins.

He faced the door, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and took the plunge.

A bell jingled pleasantly as he stepped over the threshold into an empty shop.  It was small and cozy, loose flowers displayed in staggered circular bins along the walls, with finished arrangements in a cooler, ready to grab and go.  Larger planter boxes sat in the middle of the floor, and there was a clear path where a counter held a cash register and about four half-finished arrangements.

“Be right with you!” A pleasant voice rang out from the back, and then a familiar figure was walking out, in a floral-print apron, sleeves rolled up, and hands full of green tape and wire.

Which he fumbled when he caught sight of Steve.  His face lit up, and he all but ran to deposit his items on the counter and greet his visitor.

“Steve!” He shouted with a bit of shock and, if Steve was not mistaken, delight.  “That was fast!”

“Barnes?” Steve asked unnecessarily, and Barnes wrinkled his nose.

“Didn’t you read my note?  Nobody calls me Barnes, except maybe my business partner when he’s teasing me.  Oh, and my middle school math teacher.”

Steve couldn’t help but grin in response.  Barnes, no, _Bucky_ , looked like he was going to go in for a hug, then hesitated, so Steve closed the distance.

Bucky was an amazing hugger.  No hesitation, no holding back.  Not shy about the way he nearly enfolded Steve entirely.  Just firm and comforting, holding on for the perfect length of time.  Steve realized the aside from the occasional side hug from Tony, he hadn’t been hugged in a while.  It was really nice.  He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it.

“Just making sure,” Steve nudged him.  “Wouldn’t want to assume, after calling out orders for ‘Barnes’ for months.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky looked a bit sheepish.  “You try going into a coffee shop with a name like ‘Bucky’ and see how well it turns out for you.  I got real tired of repeating myself, and trying to figure out if the coffee is for me or if there really is a ‘Becky’ out there who happened to order the same exact thing.  Then after ‘Bucket’ happened, I decided that as far as any barista was concerned, my name was ‘Barnes.’  But I’m willing to make an exception under extenuating circumstances.”  He winked.

Steve snickered. 

“But seriously, it was real embarrassing.  Shut up!  I had to switch shops after that one.  They actually threw my coffee out because they thought I left.  I was standing there for fifteen minutes, then I had to wait in line _again_ to reorder, and they were like, ‘well, why didn’t you come when your name was called?’ and I was like ‘it wasn’t!’  I thought the guy was going to spit in my drink.”

Steve was veritably howling with laughter by that point, bent almost double, arms wrapped around his stomach.

Bucky’s face was red with embarrassment, but he chuckled good-naturedly along with Steve.

Steve sighed, scrubbing a tear of mirth from his eye. 

Bucky startled, causing Steve to jump.  “Oh, where are my manners?  Come on, I’ll give you the tour!” 

Bucky waved him forward, talking enthusiastically as they went. 

Steve was in trouble; Bucky was even cuter in person.  He guided Steve around the floor, pointing out arrangements or looking absolutely radiant as he told Steve the story behind different flower meanings. 

Steve was blown away by the difference in his demeanor; here, Bucky was relaxed and chatty.  Comfortable.  In stark contrast to how stressed and quiet Barnes came across in the coffee shop in the mornings.

Bucky also made absolutely certain to emphasize the _many_ different colors of roses, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Steve as if to ask ‘are you paying attention?’ like the jerk he was.

 

“So what was in the bunch you sent me?” Steve asked.  “I mean, I recognized the sunflowers, but none of the others.  It’s really pretty, by the way.  It was a great surprise, after the week I had, so, just, thank you.”

Bucky blushed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, but guided him over to the loose flower display. 

“Well, you were right, there were sunflowers,” he pointed them out, “tiger lilies,” he pointed to the big orange blooms, “and white violets.” The tiny flowers.

Ah.  Steve grinned.  Well, the poem made more sense now.

“So, what do they mean?” he asked, and got the pleasure of watching Bucky go red up to his ears.

“Ah, well,” he coughed awkwardly.  “Sunflowers are bright and cheerful.  They symbolize vitality, loyalty, and, um, adoration.”

Bucky plucked one out of the container and gave it to Steve.  Then he moved them to the tiger lilies. 

“Lilies can mean pretty much whatever you’d like, but tiger lilies like these symbolize confidence, pride, and certain types of aggression.”

Bucky stared pointedly at Steve as he plucked one from the bunch and handed it over.  It was Steve’s turn to blush, following Bucky to the box of violets.

“And violets, um, usually means innocence or modesty, among other things, but I really just picked them to fit the poem theme.”

Bucky didn’t quite meet Steve’s eyes as he picked out a small bunch and handed them to Steve.

“So, um, yeah.  That’s the shop.  Want to come sit down for a bit?”

“Sure,” Steve grinned at Bucky, and put his bouquet on the table so he could focus on clambering up one of the tall stools at the work desk.  “Not like I have anything better to do.”

Bucky punched him in the shoulder after he settled into his own stool.  “Do you mind if I work while we talk?”

Steve shook his head, delighted at the chance to watch Bucky work his craft.  “’Course not.  I’m an artist myself; I love watching other approaches in various mediums.”

Bucky smiled shyly, gathering various yellow and red blossoms together.  “Well, I don’t know if I’d call myself an artist.”

Steve turned around on his stool to face Bucky better, resting his head in his left hand, getting comfortable.  “What would you call yourself, then?”

“Just a guy who likes flowers.  My mom…well, she’s the one this place is named after, actually.  Always dreamed of having a garden of her own, even though we lived in the city, in Brooklyn.  She used to take me to little shops like these, teach me all about flower meanings. Showed me how to hold the flowers gently. 

“I was actually going to school for engineering, you know.  But then she was diagnosed, and I dropped out of school, and when she…she died…” 

He sniffed, dropping the flowers to rub roughly at his eyes, and Steve dug a packet of tissues out of his pocket, and passed it over.  Allergies finally came in handy, for once in his life.

“Thanks.” Bucky blew his nose.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to get heavy on you.  Anyways, this place is for her, and me.  I feel really close to her here, you know?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “I can tell.  You’re different here.  More relaxed.  Happier.”  He waved off Bucky’s attempts to hand back the tissue pack.

“She sounds like a wonderful lady.  Would have loved to have met her.”

“She was,” Bucky said softly, smiling sadly.

“Anyways, you’re really strong, you know that?” Bucky looked skeptical.  Steve punched him in the shoulder.

“I’m serious.  I don’t know what I’d do without my mom.  She’s all I’ve got, at this point.  I really don’t get out to see her as much as I should.  Brooklyn has always been home, but she moved upstate once I graduated high school.  Wanted to get away from the city after my dad left.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky fiddled with the tissue in his hands.

“Don’t be.  I was really young, but it hit Ma pretty hard.  But she stayed in the city because that’s where all the good schools were.  She’s one heck of a lady.”

“Sounds like.” Bucky smiled softly, and they moved on to lighter topics.

All the while, Bucky worked, weaving gorgeous bouquets and arrangements before Steve’s eyes.  He was mesmerized by the array of colors and textures, wishing he could remember all the meanings so he could decipher the messages Bucky was weaving at a glance.

They chatted for hours about inconsequential things.  Steve was blown away by how _easy_ Bucky was to talk to.  If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that they’d known each other their entire lives.  They had so much in common, and the hours flew by as they talked nonstop.  About baseball (Dodgers all the way!), the mild fall they were having this year (Bucky liked colder weather better; Steve told him he was an idiot), school (apparently Bucky was taking some classes in his free time to easy himself back into it), and work.

 “Oh,” Bucky said, coming back with two water bottles, handing one to Steve.  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but why aren’t you working at the shop anymore?  I asked about you after it had been a couple of days, and they told me you weren’t working there anymore.”

Steve busied himself with the screw top to think of an answer.  “I’m…not sure, to be completely honest with you.” 

He was really struggling with this darn bottle.  He was all for using less plastic, but come on, did they really have to make the caps this small?

Bucky raised an eyebrow and made a vague ‘give it here’ gesture, so Steve rolled his eyes but handed the bottle over, scowling when Bucky popped it off in less than a second.  Bucky smirked.

Steve huffed, but accepted the bottle with a mumbled “thanks,” and took a long drink.  The cool water soothed his parched throat.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had talked for so long.

“I know, they’re awful,” Bucky said, referring to the water bottles.  “Anyways, what do you mean you’re not sure?”

“Well, I was fired.” Steve put the bottle down in favor of running his hands through his hair, gripping the roots more roughly than he should.  He caught himself when he touched hardened hair gel.  Bucky set aside his work to give Steve his full attention, nodding at Steve to let him know he was listening.

“I’ve been working there for six years, and I wasn’t even given a reason.  Just went in to work, same as usual last Friday, and my manager kicked me out.  Said I was fired, or “done” or something, then threatened to call the police when I tried to ask him why.”  Steve kicked at the stool sullenly.

“Damn,” Bucky muttered, at a loss.  “And they wouldn’t even give you a reason?  That’s messed up.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve groaned.  “Not that I’ll miss the job that much; customer service hell, but it was steady work, and it was all so sudden.  And I’m still looking for another job, and corporate hasn’t emailed me back yet, and they probably never will.” 

He massaged his temples; this was bring back all the stress from the week.

Bucky still looked confused.  “That _is_ super weird.  Just, out of nowhere?  Nothing happened out of the ordinary?”

At this, Steve jolted as if electrocuted, because:

“Actually, yeah.  The night before, Ross kicked me out of his office, but I might have been being paranoid?  I almost forgot that I got this:”

He took out his phone and Bucky scooched his stool closer to see the video better.  Bucky watched the screen, and Steve watched Bucky, watched as his frown lines grew deeper until he was scowling when Ross yelled at Steve to get out.

“Fuck,” he spat, getting out his own phone.  “Steve, is Ross the only one with access to that office?”

“Well, for the most part,” Steve conceded, playing with the grain of the workbench as he watched Bucky thumb through his contact list.  “I had access when I was there to close up that week.”

“Not before then, though?”

“Nope,” Steve said.

Bucky nodded, as if Steve had just confirmed something. 

“Hold on a second, I’ve gotta make a call real quick.”

He didn’t move from his stool, but focused his gaze on the far wall.

“Nat?  Yeah, it’s me.  Listen, we’ve got him.  … Uh huh, yep.  Hold on for a second.  Hey, Steve?” Bucky put his hand over the speaker and turned to Steve.  “Could you do me a favor and text me a copy of that video?”

Steve raised his eyebrows, incredulous, but nodded.

“Thanks.”  He turned back to the call.  “I’ll send it right over…uh huh.  Shut up….Yep, you too.  Bye!”  He hung up, and turned back to Steve, who hadn’t even started to do as he asked, just gaping at Bucky. 

“Did you send it?” Bucky asked. 

“Um, nope,” Steve said.  “I forgot to put your number in my phone before I left.”  He smiled, sheepishly.  “I might have been in a bit of a hurry.”

Bucky rolled his eyes fondly.  “Give it here.” 

Bucky texted the video to himself, and when he handed Steve the phone back, he had a brand new contact for “Bucky.”

“Thanks,” Steve pocketed his phone again.

Bucky winked at him.  “Now I have your number, too.”

“So…” Steve started, hoping Bucky would know what he was talking about.  No such luck.   The jerk just raised an eyebrow unhelpfully.  “Are you gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“Yep,” Bucky checked his own phone before he put it away, eyes widening comically as he caught sight of the time.

“Shit, Steve, it’s after five!  I meant to close up over two hours ago, hang on a second.”

He all but ran to turn the sign in the window to “closed” and lock the door.

He sighed, walking back over to Steve. 

“So, yeah, the phone call.  It’s a long story, and I just realized I forgot to have lunch.  Don’t know about you, but I’m starving.  Want to grab dinner?”

“Sure!” Steve grinned, grabbing his coat as Bucky put the completed arrangements in the cooler and turned off all the lights.  He rolled down his sleeves, locked the door behind them, and they were off.


	5. Chapter 5

They ended up at Steve’s favorite privately-owned burger joint, complete with craft beer and karaoke every Wednesday night.  Thankfully, it was Friday.  So it was crowded, but not overly so for an early dinner.

They easily found a table for two by the window, and chatted idly while they watched the sun start to set.  It was one of the nicest days Steve had enjoyed in a long time.  They had just gotten their drinks when Steve decided to broach the subject.

“So,” he twirled his straw paper around his finger, watching as Bucky mashed the lemon slice with his straw.  “The phone call?”

“Right,” Bucky lifted up the glass to take a sip before he continued.  “So that was Nat, er, Natasha.  She’s an old friend.  And she works for…well, to be honest with you, I’m not exactly sure what she does.  But she’s also friends with a bunch of lawyers.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, and Bucky continued.

“Anyways, every once in a while she’ll ask me to go scope out…situations for her.  I have no fucking clue what she does with the information I give her, but this time she basically told me to go to your shop and get coffee, and tell her anything I could about your asshole of a boss.”

Bucky grinned at Steve, kicking him a bit under the table.

“Unfortunately for her, I was kind of distracted by one particular asshole behind the counter.”

Steve flushed.  “Yeah, well, I might have been distracted by some jerk who always gave me shit about making change the wrong way.  And ran off for a week after I messed up.”

Bucky stopped stirring his drink idly with his straw and looked straight at Steve.

“Pal, _you_ didn’t mess up.  _I_ messed up.  I made things all awkward, and then I was so swamped with last-minute wedding arrangements that I made Clint get me coffee and slept in the shop for a solid work week.  Then I went straight home and didn’t leave bed for like three days.”

Bucky was stirring his water again, avoiding Steve’s gaze.  “It was awful.”

“Oh,” Steve said faintly, leaning back farther in his seat.  “I thought I scared you off.  I thought you weren’t ever coming back, and it was all because I messed up, then tried to make it up to you with that dumb poem…” Steve covered his face with his hands in embarrassment.

Bucky might have made a noise of protest, but Steve couldn’t stop now.

“It was _so dumb_ , Buck.  As soon as it left my hand, all I wanted to do was turn back the clock and throw that damn cup away.  What was I thinking?”

He groaned, and then hands were pulling his away from his eyes.

“Steve.  It might have been dumb, but it was the kind of dumb that made my whole damn day.”

Bucky’s mouth was curved self-deprecatingly.

“I made an ass out of myself, assuming,” he snorted.  “Sorry, just slipped out.  Anyways, I seriously misread the situation, and embarrassed myself and you.  But I had to be sure.”

He stared across the table, intensely.

“I wouldn’t wish what I went through on anyone.  I told myself I’d speak up if I ever saw someone who might me going through something like that.”

He swallowed, looking down at the table.  “I know you didn’t ask for it, but _I_ asked for it, many times, and everyone just, looked the other way.”

Steve took Bucky’s hand where it was laying on the table, and squeezed it firmly.

“If it helps, I definitely appreciated the concern, even though I didn’t need it.  I’m awful sorry, Buck.  That must have been rough.”

Bucky chuckled, a bit watery. 

“Yeah.” He sniffed.  “Jesus, I’ve been a real downer today.”  He wiped his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Fuck.  What I meant to say with all that is that your “dumb” poem; it really made my day.  Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve’s heart leaped at that, thumping in time to _Stevie, Stevie, Stevie_.  Or maybe that was just his arrhythmia acting up again.

He was still holding Bucky’s hand, but let it go awkwardly when the waiter came over to take their order.

Bucky looked as guilty as Steve felt when they asked for a couple of more minutes.   The waiter looked irritated, but left them to it.

While they waited, Bucky brought up something that had evidently been on his mind for awhile.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you; why the poems?” Bucky chuckled a bit, carefully tying his straw paper into knots.  “I mean, I really enjoyed them, but it just seems like a random choice.”

“Oh!” Steve felt his ears go red.  “I, um, noticed your book.  It was a poetry book of some sort.”

Bucky smiled at him.  “Oh yeah, that was for school.  I told you I’m taking a few courses part time at the community college.  It was required reading for my literature class.”

Steve smiled, then laughed, nervously.

“And I swear to you I can write better poems than that!  But I only had a minute, and um, well, you know the format that’s drilled into you in elementary school.”

Bucky’s eyes went all soft.

“Yeah.  I know.”

Then Bucky grinned, and reached across the table to take Steve’s hand again.

“You know, I always hated those kinds of poems growing up.”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand.  What was happening here?  Steve wasn’t sure, but he was all for it.

“Really?”  Steve asked, feeling his heart pick up at the gentle, steady contact.

“Mmm.  Too overused.  Boring.  Everyone did it to the point it didn’t mean anything anymore.”

Bucky’s gaze was piercing.  Was it always this hot in here, or was it just Steve?

“But Stevie, tell me if I’m wrong, not that I think I am, but weren’t you dancing around _this_ this whole time?”

Bucky let go of Steve’s hand to pull a pen out of his pocket, and scribble on one of the paper napkins, then passed it across the table.  It read:

 

**“Roses are red,**

**Only sometimes you see,**

**I know I’m no poet, but**

**Will you go out with me?”**

Steve gaped at the napkin, reading the whole thing twice before his brain could catch up and he smiled so wide he thought his face would split.

Bucky smiled back, but looked a bit worried.

“Oh, yes, Bucky, I’d like that a lot.” Steve breathed.  “Wanna start now?”

Bucky chuckled, and they smiled sweetly at each other until their food arrived.

 

<<>> 

 

After they ate like people who hadn’t seen food for weeks, as it was a mild night, they decided to take a walk around one of the local parks.

Steve didn’t think he ever stopped smiling, and Bucky held his hand the entire time.

A thought hit him.  He chuckled to himself.

“What?” Bucky smiled down at him through long lashes, features softened by the glow from the streetlights.  He could get used to this view.

“Just, it’s funny.  Out of all the messages to pick, I happened to use the cheesiest flower-related lines in the book on a _florist_.  And he didn’t even knock my block off.”

Bucky laughed.  Steve made a mental note to try to make that happen as much as possible from now on.

Steve frowned.

“I do have one question, though.”

“Just one?” Bucky teased, squeezing his hand.

“Depends on your answer.”  Steve let his features harden.  “How the hell did you find out where I lived?”

“Oh,” Bucky looked a bit sheepish.  “I showed up at the shop with the arrangement, hoping someone was friends with you and would drop it off at your apartment later for me.  But as soon as I walked in the door, one of the girls…I think her name was Darby?”

“Darcy,” Steve groaned good-naturedly.

“Oh, yeah,” Bucky grinned.  “Her.  Yeah, she started squealing, said ‘is that for Steeeeve?’ and started rambling that you’d been fired but here was your forwarding address, and, um, she said to give you this?”

He waggled his eyebrows.  Or tried to, at least.  The degree of success was up for debate.

Steve groaned, reflexively trying to cover up his face in embarrassment, but his hand was otherwise occupied.  Which Bucky seemed to pick up, because he squeezed his hand again.

“I’ll probably have to send her a thank you card.  And ask her how _she_ knew my forwarding address.”

Bucky chuckled.

“Well, anyways, once I had your address, I thought it would be weird to go over myself, so I sent Clint, my business partner, out on delivery.  He was such an asshole when he came back that I sent him home early.  Which was probably what he was going for in the first place, come to think of it.”

Steve loved listening to Bucky talk, but today had been a lot.  Amazing, but a lot.  He felt a headache coming on and he was fading fast.

“Hey, Buck, thanks for today.  I had a great time.  But, um, do you mind if I head home?  I’m getting pretty tired.”

“Oh!  Of course, we can go whenever you’re ready.” Bucky fumbled with his free hand for his phone to check the time.  “Shit, yeah, it is getting pretty late.  I should head back, too.  Can I walk you to your train?”

“Please,” Steve grinned, and reached up to link their arms together.  Bucky laughed in delight as they made their way slowly to the station, ignoring annoyed looks from other pedestrians as they took up more than their fair share of sidewalk. 

Bucky even waited with him until his train came.

“This is me,” Steve grinned.  “Text me when you get home please.”  He opened up his arms for a hug.

Bucky obliged.  Ah, yes, still an amazing hugger, but this time there was definitely an extra squeeze, and they both held on longer, reluctant to let go.

“Same goes for you, punk.” Bucky smiled at him, and Steve couldn’t resist watching him blur out as the subway screeched away.


	6. Epilogue

_That following Monday…_

The weekend had been spectacular, one of the best in recent memory, that between texting Bucky and making serious ground on his school projects, Steve had almost forgotten about his employment situation.  Or, rather, unemployment situation. 

But then for the second time that week, his doorbell rang.

Lucky for Steve, he was just getting ready to surprise Bucky with lunch at work, so he was already dressed when he opened the door to find the intimidating duo (why was everyone so much taller than Steve?) of a man with an eyepatch and a woman with the most vibrant red hair Steve had ever seen.

“Um,” he might have squeaked a bit.  “Can I help you?”

“Steven Grant Rogers?” the man asked gravely, and Steve gulped and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Yes sir, oh, er, I mean, yes.  I’m him.  This is he.” Steve winced.  _Smooth, Rogers_.

The main raised his remaining eyebrow, but then the woman shoved him out of the way, rolling her eyes.

“Seriously, Nick?  Hi Steve, I’m Natasha, James’ friend.” Steve found himself shaking her hand, as he asked, “James?”

She snorted.  “I know, he has a lot of names.  Bucky, I mean.”

Steve laughed.  “Yeah, he does, come to think of it.  Oh, would you like to come in?”

Natasha nodded, so he stepped aside, then closed the door behind them after they filed into his tiny studio.

‘Nick’ sniffed, and put his briefcase down on the table.

“Mr. Rogers, I’m sure that, like myself, you’re a busy man, so I’ll get straight to the point.

“My name is Director Fury, and it has come to my attention that you were the source of key evidence in an ongoing investigation.”

Steve couldn’t help but raise his eyebrows incredulously, and Fury smirked at him as he continued.

“Now, I’ll need to see the device and watch while you delete the video in question in its entirety.”  He folded his hands behind his back and stared pointedly at Steve.

“Wai—Hold on,” Steve sputtered, and put up his hands, like that would slow things down.  He had major concerns.  There were two unknown people in his apartment, intent that he get rid of what he was learning was important evidence. “What?”

“Calm down, Steve.”  Natasha smiled at him sweetly.  “Check your messages.  I asked James to confirm that we’re the good guys here.”

Steve was skeptical, but he pulled out his phone, and sure enough, there were two texts from Bucky:

 

**steve; do whatever nat says; ill explain later.**

**and don’t worry about fury.  he’s all bark.  mostly.**

Steve sighed to himself, but did as he asked, deleting the video from his video reel, messages, and recently deleted folder.

Fury nodded.  “Thank you.  One more thing; I’m going to need you sign these non-disclosure forms; nothing major, just don’t acknowledge that this evidence exists or explain what it entails to any party other than Ms. Romanoff,” Natasha gave a little wave, “Mr. Barnes, or myself.  Is that clear?”

Steve nodded, then signed his name at least three times and initialed upwards of fifteen.

Fury all but ripped the folder out of his hands and repacked his briefcase.  What was with strangers ringing his doorbell and rudely ripping items out of his hands this week!?

“Excellent.  You can expect a modest reward to be deposited directly in your main savings account within the next three business days.  Good day.”

Fury moved towards the door, leaving Steve sputtering at the table.

“Wait!”

“Yes, Mr. Rogers?”  Call Steve crazy, but Fury looked almost…amused.

“Can I ask—“

“Nope,” Fury cut him off.  “Good day, Mr. Rogers.”

Fury didn’t shake his hand as he glided out of the door.  But then he stopped, and turned. 

“And Mr. Rogers?” Fury smirked.  Oh yeah.  He was definitely enjoying this.

“I think you’ll find that there’s an opening at your former place of business.  If I were you, I’d submit an application and see what happens.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Natasha winked at him, and then they were gone.

 

Later, Bucky explained that they just didn’t want evidence floating around where anyone could get ahold of it. 

“Otherwise, there’s a chance that it wouldn’t be accepted as valid by the court,” Bucky waved his free hand ambiguously, the other occupied with his chopsticks as they sat eating sesame noodles and orange chicken at Bucky’s workbench. 

Bucky had loved his surprise lunch, practically tackling Steve in a hug before he could get in the door, scaring the shit out of him in the process.  They had a brief but productive talk about boundaries (Steve explained that he loved hugs, but would appreciate a little warning and Bucky admitted that he was the same and apologized; he got excited and wasn’t thinking), then Steve hugged him back.

“Don’t quote me on that, though, I don’t really understand all that legal stuff very well.  Nat explains it better than me.”

Steve shrugged and went back to lunch.  “Sounded okay to me.  Thanks for texting me; I had no idea what to do there.”

Bucky smiled.  “Any time, Steve.”

“No, Buck, you don’t understand.  They were _scary_.  Why is everyone so tall?  _Why?_ ”

Bucky snorted.  “I think the question worth asking here is why you’re so short.”

“A history of debilitating childhood illness,” Steve deadpanned, snickering as the horror on his boyfriend’s face turned to playful irritation, and earned him a flick on the ear.

 

Much later, Steve checked the online job portal.  The only open position was for “assistant manager.”  Steve snorted; he was in no way qualified, but he figured, ‘what the heck,’ and sent off his resume.

 

Two days later, a significant chunk of change hit his savings account.  He planned an impromptu bus trip to visit his Ma, apologizing to Bucky for the short notice, and promising to take Bucky along next time.  Bucky just waved him off, told him to have a great visit, and to text him every once in a while to let him know Steve was alive.

 

Two weeks later, Steve was hired as the assistant manager at the coffee shop.  He was fresh from visiting with his mom when he got notice in the mail, and Bucky cooked him dinner to celebrate. 

They’d been on more than a few dates by this point, and Steve though it was finally time to ask, as they sat on the couch, leaning against each other, Bucky’s arm around Steve’s shoulder as they laughed at the antics of Ron and Leslie (thanks, Tony). 

He was nervous, but all he could do was take the plunge.

“Buck?”  He ventured, snuggling a bit more into his boyfriend’s side. 

“Hmm?” Bucky tucked him in a bit closer.

“Can I—I mean, would it be alright if I kissed you?”

Bucky turned to face him.

“What?  I mean, yes, Steve, I’d like that.”

Steve smiled, and leaned in.

Bucky closed the distance, and they shared a few chaste kisses.  They couldn’t go too deep, or they ran into Steve’s glasses.  Steve giggled at the feeling of Bucky’s nose breath tickling his cheeks, and Bucky pulled Steve fully onto his lap, and hugged him from behind, nuzzling the side of his face.  Steve was in heaven.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”  Steve asked distractedly, tracing light patterns on Bucky’s forearms.

“You don’t mind if we take this slow, do you?” Steve turned a bit.

“Of course not, Buck.  I want to take my time, enjoy this.”  Bucky smiled into the side of Steve’s neck.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

They spent a majority of their dates snuggled together on either Bucky or Steve’s couch.  But they both agreed that Bucky’s was more comfortable.  It was probably because Bucky’s couch was only secondhand.

 

Over Thanksgiving, Steve had the pleasure of meeting Becca, Bucky’s twin sister, his brother in law, and his nieces and nephew.  He learned that neither sibling had had contact with their father since middle school.

Bucky shrugged when Steve expressed sympathy; they both knew what it was like to have absentee fathers.

Steve loved watching Becca give Bucky shit, swatting him with a wooden spoon when he tried to sneak an early taste of dinner or ‘steal’ cookies for his nieces and nephew.

Bucky had sputtered adorably when the kids called him “Uncle Steve” and demanded “pretty pictures.”  Steve was happy to oblige, and laughed as he got to sit at the table and draw while Bucky is in high demand to play seemingly endless rounds of “horsey”  Steve was also careful to refer to his boyfriend exclusively as “Uncle Bucky” for the duration of their visit.

Bucky tried and failed to withhold kisses in revenge.  It backfired when he cracked first.  God, Steve loved him.

 

Over Christmas, he took Bucky upstate to meet his mother.

There were several feet of snow, but they rented a car and made it after a harrowing trip.  They had to pull over a few times to calm down, the three hour drive almost doubling by the time they made it.

Sarah greeted them at the door, and the woman, who was shorter than Steve by a good two inches, shoved her only son bodily out of the way to hug _Bucky_.

Of course, Steve had told her all about Bucky, _ad nauseam_ , she had teased him. 

“Bucky this, Bucky that.  You never talked about Sharon this way.  You’d better bring this boy to Christmas, Steve.”

She knew all about how much Bucky missed his mom, so he wasn’t sore in the slightest about being passed over for first hug.

Especially after seeing the way Bucky _melted_ into her motherly embrace; for that moment, he looked smaller than Sarah.

And if tears were shed, no one knew but the three of them.  Sarah had enough motherly love for both of them, and Bucky spent as much time in her arms as he could.  Neither of the Rogers minded.

 

In February, Steve saw a familiar name in the paper.

Thaddeus Ross, convicted of corporate fraud.

_Huh_ , he thought, before he passed the newsstand, _I’ll have to tell Buck_. 

And he didn’t give it another thought until he was safe in the arms of the man he loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky, you dirty liar. For your info, dear reader, violets symbolize many things, including love of truth and truth of love. Interestingly enough, white violets are also an invitation to gamble on love. Of course, Bucky will share this little tidbit with Steve when their relationship is a bit less new, and Steve's reaction will be as fluffy as you can imagine.
> 
> Anyways, that's it! For now, at least. All written in just over twenty four hours! Imma go sleep now, but first, I'd like to take a moment to thank some people in particular for their enthusiasm and support for this self-indulgent detour:
> 
> Tumblrs:
> 
> is-this-just-an-illusionn  
> IvyEntwined  
> the-winter-senpai  
> gracelesso  
> the-no-name-system  
> thevagabondboy  
> cometbarnes  
> brooklynbabybucky  
> mortenavida  
> neswrites  
> imhereforgaysuperheroes
> 
> Ao3:
> 
> UmiAzuma  
> gracelesso  
> thevagabondboy  
> evensdramaticshenanigans  
> mortenavida  
> innogueira  
> msmarvelftw
> 
> Credit to the-no-name-system for the inspiration for Bucky's "will you go out with me?" poem, to mortenavida for pointing out flower language and inspiring me to develop Bucky's character around his love for his mom, to the-winter-senpai for the name of Bucky's flower shop (seriously folks, it was going to be Barnes' Floral Arrangements; trust me, this is just better), and to mortenavida, msmarvelftw, is-this-just-an-illusionn, thevagabondboy, cometbarnes, IvyEntwined, and {Senforza} for brainstorming bastardized versions of "Bucky" a barista could conceivably call out by mistake (or on purpose, if they were feeling mean). I laughed, thank you all so much!
> 
> The names in {} denote names that are from the Stucky!AU Bang slack. I'll replace them with tumblr/ao3 usernames when they become available. Please let me know if I missed someone or misspelled something! 
> 
> If I can figure out how to link all these in the notes, I will. But later. I've tried a few things and failed, but I'm tired rn. I'll try again later.
> 
> Oh, and feel free to chat on tumblr! My username is the same.
> 
> Night all!


End file.
